Slices of Pizza by Katrina

Slices of Pizza by Katrina - January 2017 Scholarship Essay

“Please pass the last slice to my sister.”

That’s how you might say it, anyway.

“Can you bring this over there?” I’d say, pointing back and forth between the pizza and my sister, hoping the listener would not press me to specify further. I may have looked a little strange, but at least I’d be making the “s” sound six fewer times.

Words are about access. When you can’t say them, you can’t get the things you want. Slices of pizza. Turns on the swing. Friendship. Acceptance. Love. People look at you differently. Children ask why you talk funny. They don’t even know they’re being hurtful.

Talking to people filled me with fear. It’s one thing to feel fleeting fear in the presence of something frightening, like darkness. But when the fear stays with you, it crystallizes self-doubt, forging maxims out of the flickers of despair, mantras you can repeat to yourself. You aren’t good enough. Nobody likes you. You’ll never be normal. Try speaking to a stranger with thoughts like those going through your head.

“Could you--”

You aren’t good enough.

“--could you please--”

Nobody likes you.

“--pass the--”

You’ll never be normal.

Of course, never is a strong word. My parents found me a speech therapist who had me chew gum, eat pudding, and drink through a swirly straw--tasks designed to strengthen my jaw muscles. My mother used flashcards to work on my pronunciation. After years of practice, I learned to speak like everyone else, but it was my sister who helped me overcome the fear that lingered. She distracted me from the voice in my head. She told me stories, made me laugh, got me to talk about things that made me happy. A good distraction is a powerful ally against fear.

At the hospital where I now volunteer, I see fear all the time. People afraid of doctors and needles. People afraid of the unknown. People afraid to die alone. Then there is Norman; he is afraid of everything. Norman is in his late fifties, white hair still hinting at its original deep black color. He has schizophrenia, which gives him paranoid hallucinations. When I come into his room, he’s hiding under the blanket from the man on the TV. He thinks he’s going to jail. He thinks they’re going to burn him alive. He says these things over and over, like incantations of self-defeat.

You aren’t good enough. Nobody likes you. You’ll never be normal. The memory of fear helps me recognize it in others. I do my best to help.

“Do you like basketball?” I ask Norman, who remains hidden under his bed sheets. I don’t know much about basketball. It’s just a lame attempt to get him thinking about something else.
“Yes,” says Norman, still hiding.
“Have you heard of Kobe James?”
Norman peers out from his blanket, looking at me with confusion. For a moment, I wonder if he thinks I’m trying to hurt him.
“Wait. I mean Kobe Bryant.”
A hint of a smile appears on his face. I’ve said something silly, and it’s distracting him from the voices in his head. For the moment, the fear subsides. We laugh together, taking joy in my ignorance, forgetting the dark forces doing battle over his mind. I stay with him, talking with him, distracting him, until he falls asleep.

My volunteer work at the hospital has inspired me to pursue nursing as a career. In my time at the hospital, I’ve seen the breadth of challenges that fall under the purview of nurses. Nurses play many roles, both administrative and palliative. They give you medication, deliver your meals, monitor your vital stats. But sometimes, their most important function is also the most basic, the most human: to get you through the dark night.